


cross my heart, one last time

by all15ofthem



Series: cross my heart [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-04-29 17:08:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14477343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all15ofthem/pseuds/all15ofthem
Summary: Ian sighs. He doesn’t know how much time he spent listening to the waves when he hears the footsteps, which stop about a meter away, but Ian just waits. And breathes calmly. And listens to the waves.“See, the thing about oceans and sand and beaches is that it’s all nice and pretty and calming and shit when you’re there, but--”He feels like he hasn’t heard that voice in ages, not therealvoice anyway, just the one he would hear in the back of his head occasionally. The real thing sounds a little deeper, a little rougher, a little older. It’s been almost a decade and yet it somehow hurts Ian to think that Mickey’s voice could have changed without him realizing it, without him having picked up on those tiny details.“--by the end of it,” Mickey continues, “you’re fucking sunburned and there’s sand up your ass.”





	cross my heart, one last time

**Author's Note:**

> This work is dedicated to a beautiful and adorable baby on his birth day; Ollie McFeester.  
> May you and your wonderful mommy live happily ever after. <3

Ian sighs.

His eyes are closed; they have yet to open since he reached this place because he doesn’t want to ruin the warm blanket of calm that has set over his mind. The fact that he can breathe salty air and think clear thoughts without his constant and neverending compulsion to  _go go go_ is disconcerting enough, but the sheer freedom of choice  _not_ to choose is almost more than he can bear. So instead, he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think about anything at all, letting the rhythmic sound of the waves coming and going take his thoughts away.

His body is completely at ease, limbs stretched out on a beach chair, his breathing shallow, heartbeat slowing down as the warmth gingerly caresses his skin. The waves loudly crash on the beach before rolling forward, the grainy movement of the sand like little bells bumping into each other as they struggle against the water’s pull and its subsequent retreat back into the ocean, just for the next wave right behind it to repeat the whole cycle again. He concentrates on the sound of the waves, letting it overpower his senses, washing over and through him, filling his soul and his ears with its roar, feeling its rhythm in his body and heart and blood.

With a smile, Ian sighs again, leaning his head back a little more, breathing out slowly and never wanting the world’s most soothing sound to go away.

He doesn’t know how much time he spent listening to the waves when he hears the footsteps, but even then, he doesn’t open his eyes, maintaining his unity with the ebb and flow of the ocean, enjoying the little bells in his ears after each crash. The footsteps stop about a meter away, but Ian just waits. And breathes calmly. And listens to the waves.

“See, the thing about oceans and sand and beaches is that… it’s all nice and pretty and calming and shit when you’re there, but--”

_There you are._

The voice stops and the sound of a can opening makes Ian smile as he keeps his eyes shut and his face aimed upward. He feels like he hasn’t heard that voice in ages, not the  _real_ voice anyway, just the one he would hear in the back of his head occasionally. Most of the time. Always.

The real thing, or as real as things can be in a dream-like state of mind, sounds a little deeper, a little rougher, a little older. It’s been almost a decade and yet it somehow hurts Ian to think that Mickey’s voice could have changed without him realizing it, without him having picked up on those tiny details. But then again, his brain was never one to be trusted.

“--by the end of it,” he continues, “you’re fucking sunburned and there’s sand up your ass.”

Ian can’t hold back the snort that escapes his mouth and he cracks open an eye to look at Mickey, for which he is immediately punished as he accidentally looks directly into the light. He squishes his eye closed and sighs, leaning back again and trying to relax his body while his heart suddenly aches. The sound of waves crashing on the surf continues undisturbed in the background.

“I fucking hate sand,” Mickey adds. 

“You’ve become a whiny little shit, you know,” Ian replies dryly, and is promptly rewarded with a splash of cold liquid on his bare stomach. He yelps and half-falls, quite gracelessly, out of the beach chair as he instinctively tries to get away from the threat. A roaring laugh booms across the beach, and it is all Ian can do to keep the scowl on his face as he gets up and nonchalantly brushes the liquid off his belly and the sand off his legs, refusing to look up while his heart flutters and contracts, the feeling making him dizzy with emotions that he can’t yet categorize.

“8 years really did a number on your reflexes, huh,” is the equally dry response, but Ian can practically feel the smirk in Mickey’s voice as he straightens up to his full length, pushing his shoulders back, his chin up, arms relaxed by his side, the light’s glare making his eyes water a little.

On the other side of the beach chair, Mickey is casually taking a sip of his drink, one eyebrow lifted in amusement at Ian’s display of dominance. The light doesn’t seem to be bothering him as he slowly rakes his eyes over Ian’s body, from his head to his toes and back up.

The primal urge to touch Mickey and the strangeness of seeing him up close are battling it out in Ian’s mind, trying to decide whether to kick the chair out of the way, fling it to a side, stomp over it or just keep staring at Mickey from where he is standing, not interrupting whatever moment is going on. His stomach turns but he forces himself to calm down, to breathe a little, slowing down his heartbeat and stretching out his hand to get rid of the tingling feeling in his fingers. The waves keep crashing and the bells keep ringing as Ian hungrily takes in the sight in front of him, like the ultimate embodiment of a fata morgana.

Mickey seems to be waiting, making no attempt to move towards or away from Ian, just standing there in his everyday baggy shorts and button-up shirt with the sleeves ripped off, his hair just slightly messy with one stubborn little black strand flopping back and forth in front of his eyes. But though he seems calm on the surface, Ian can still spot the tiny tells he used to have; the slight worrying of his bottom lip, the strain in his left hand holding the can, his right index and middle finger rubbing together as if in need of a cigarette, the heat in his eyes as his gaze flickers from Ian’s eyes to his lips.

Ian’s chest suddenly feels heavy, like a weight is pushing down on it, and he forces himself to look away from Mickey, looking down at the white sand and digging his toe into it.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbles towards the sand, kicking away a small seashell, and the weight on his chest only becomes heavier. Nausea is slowly creeping up his throat and he’s desperately trying to swallow it back down, wishing he could steal a sip of Mickey’s drink.

As if reading his mind, Mickey moves forward, walking around the beach chair and placing his can on the little table Ian failed to notice. He stares at the can for a second and nods to himself before moving toward the ocean, stopping at the edge of where the waves crash into the surf and peering into the distance, his back to Ian, his right index and middle finger rubbing together.

Ian hesitates a moment before grabbing the cool can and bringing it to his lips. He forces himself to drink slowly, small sips and slow breaths, and the nausea and pressure on his chest subside a little. He stares at Mickey’s back as he drinks, the waves coming and going, the light reflecting in the water, and he finishes the can without recognizing the flavor of the cold liquid inside.

Placing the can back on the table, he wipes his suddenly clammy hands on his pants, the butterflies bouncing around in his stomach making his body feel hot and sticky. He hides his hands in his pockets then takes them back out, shaking out his arms and shoulders a little, psyching himself up to walk towards Mickey’s waiting form. Squaring his shoulders, he breathes out to slow down his heartbeat, letting the sound of the waves brush away the nervousness crawling through his veins before moving towards the edge of the water.

Mickey looks up when he approaches and Ian mirrors his positioning a few feet away, just outside the reach of the water, digging his feet into the sand like a little kid. Together, they watch the waves trying to creep up to their feet before the water pulls it back in again, the soft sound of the sand calming Ian’s erratic thoughts.

“I actually wasn’t expecting you so early,” Mickey says as a wave comes dangerously close, jolting Ian out of his own head.

“I’m eh-- it’s…” Fumbling for words, Ian runs a hand through his hair and sighs, “I… tried?”

Mickey snorts softly, “You did pretty well for your first try.”

“It’s just math and chemistry,” Ian shrugs, “honestly not that hard if you really want it.”

“And do you still want it?”

Before Ian can answer, Mickey takes a quick step back right before a cold wave splashes over Ian’s feet, making him yelp in surprise. With one foot still half-stuck in the sand and his balance caught off-guard, Ian awkwardly stumbles backward and steps right on top of a seashell. He instinctively tries to move his foot away from the pain, but twists his ankle in the process as he tries to reposition, causing him to fall flat on his back onto the unforgiving sand, his breath knocked out of him and something hurting in his chest. He moans softly at all the random pain shooting through his body, wondering where it all went wrong.

A peculiar sniffing noise has him opening his eyes to find Mickey a few feet away, his hand rubbing his upper lip as he tries to contain his laughter. Ian tries to sit up and raises an eyebrow at him, which was all that was necessary for the floodgates to break. The sound of Mickey’s laugh reverberates across the beach, healing a particularly deep wound inside of Ian he hadn’t realized had never scabbed over. Mickey’s smile spreads out over his whole face, all teeth and slightly reddened cheeks, his eyes wide and bright with amusement. Laugh lines that Ian has never seen before stretch outward from the corner of his blue eyes, and the innate urge to trace them with his fingers flashes through Ian’s mind. He smiles back despite the pain in his chest and spine, propping himself up on his elbow and exhaling, the strangeness of everything going on fading into the background with the sound of Mickey’s laugh and the soft waves.

“That was pretty spectacular even for someone who has seen you vault over couches and do your little army routine.” Mickey grins, sitting down on the sand next to Ian.

“It’s not my fault, man,” Ian manages to say through the pain, “I just keep falling for you.”

“Jesus Christ, Gallagher...”

Ian snorts, and the movement causes the pain in his chest and back to return tenfold. He pushes a hand to his chest to stifle the pain and Mickey’s smile falters as he looks at Ian.

“My heart is weak for you, Milkovich,” he proclaims before the pain returns, and he winks at Mickey as he breathes through the pressure. Mickey rolls his eyes, but the hint of a smile is pulling on his lips, and just that little motion makes Ian feel lighter and happier.

With a deep sigh, Mickey leans back onto the sand, his hands underneath his head, his eyes closed. It takes Ian a few seconds of slow breathing to deal with the pain before he copies Mickey, exhaling as he leans back, listening to Mickey’s breathing and the faint sound of the waves.

Mickey’s voice shakes him out of his reverie.

“How are they?”

Ian opens his eyes and is immediately blinded again, so he moves his whole body to lie on his side so he can look at Mickey and avoid the light glare.

“Mine or yours?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

Mickey shrugs, trying hard to maintain his composure. “Either. Both. Preferably mine.”

Ian smiles as he looks at Mickey’s profile. “They’re doing well. She moved out of the South Side a few years ago. Got a stable job and a guy who can’t get enough of little Maia, so there’s that. I went to see her last week. She looks good, seems happy.”

His smile falters a little as the memory passes through his brain and his entire body flashes cold, but he clears his throat and continues.

“There’s a Momma Bear quality about her for Maia that she didn’t have for herself, so I don’t think anyone will be laying their hands on either of them if they want to keep them. I think they’ll be okay. I hope she’ll be okay…”

Mickey nods slightly and swallows hard, his eyes still closed as he softly bites his lip. A single tear rolls down Mickey’s cheek into the sand.

“That’s good,” he breathes, “really good.”

Ian nods along with him, even if Mickey’s eyes are still closed, and it was all he could do not to lean forward and kiss him right then and there. Their silence and the muted sound of the waves stretches on for a few more seconds until Mickey opens his eyes and moves to lie sideways as well, facing Ian, wiggling a little to get comfortable.

“And how are you?” he asks, misty blue eyes fixated on his.

Ian’s eyes glaze over slightly and for a moment, he can’t breathe. He clears his throat and the pain in his chest returns for a split second. He tries to inhale but there doesn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the air. Sweat breaks out on his brow and he feels feverish as he struggles to sit up, his skin suddenly too tight for his body. Mickey effortlessly moves upright, upper body twisted to face Ian.

“I can’t stop it,” Ian manages to say between short breaths, a slow tear freely rolling down his face as he stares at the waves.

“I did everything I could think of but nothing I do ever stops that  _thing_ in the back of my head,” he adds. “And trust me, I tried, but alcohol and drugs can only numb so much and it’s still always there, always just ringing in the back of my head, fucking me up, making me miss you.”

He laughs without mirth. “The funny thing is that apparently no one in my family can relate or even  _imagine_ what it’d be like to lose someone they love, to truly have a part of their soul ripped out. They’re all so fucking egocentric sometimes.”

Mickey snorts in contempt, and a small smile tugs on Ian’s lips before his mood turns dark again.

“They just never even  _try_ to understand. All they’d say is ‘it’ll be alright’ or ‘time heals all wounds’ or something equally stupid like that, as if all I have to do is  _want_ to get over you and everything would be magically healed. Fiona’s favorite is ‘you’re doing better without him’, and I just--”

8 years of life are trying to cram themselves into a single sentence, fighting for the right words to make Mickey understand unlike all the others. The feelings of loss and desperation, the many attempts at trying to shape his future into a semblance of order, trying to help his family stay afloat amidst the apathy of his own life, helping Mandy when she herself could no longer see the light at the end of the tunnel while wishing that light could come closer, trying to see colors and happiness where he only found black, white and greyness, and the utter frustration at wanting something no one would approve of.

“I lost you and then I lost me, and my soul just couldn’t hold onto my body anymore. I just felt so--”

Ian breathes out, exhaling slowly as the world goes quiet around him. His brain feels calm and clean, as if the words have finally reached their intended target. The pain in his body is gone, everything feeling soft and light and content, like that one morning when sunlight filtered through the curtains as he woke up with his arm clutching a warm body, big-spooning Mickey for the first time.

“I’ve never actually seen a real ocean before,” Ian declares, and Mickey’s head snaps up, frowning in confusion at the change of topic. He purses his lips and glares at the water as if personally offended, taking a deep breath before addressing Ian.

“Yes, I know that.”

Ian nods, intently, until he realizes what he’s doing and he stops.

“But if I’ve never seen the ocean, how can I dream about it?” he continues his distracting train of thought.

Mickey’s frown deepens slightly before he turns to look at the water again, at their attempted crash on the beach and the even slower retreat, the muted sound of the sand as it barely moves. The water seems not just to have calmed down, but seems sluggish, like it’s fighting to crest and crash, as if it has no more strength to push the waves forward.

“This is not a dream,” he says, cautiously, looking at Ian’s face to gauge his reaction.

Ian tilts his face slightly sideways, biting his lip. “Then why does it feel like I'm dreaming?”

“I’m not a dream, Ian, not anymore.”

_There you are._

“Then what am I doing here?”

Ian tries to remember his previous train of thought and turns to Mickey, one hands lightly flailing as he attempts to find the words when it hits him. His hand freezes before falling down to the sand, his whole body suddenly cold. The silence stretches on as his thoughts align themselves, slowly pushing forward the words he has been avoiding. He turns away from Mickey to look at the ocean, at the water that no longer moves, at the bright light emanating from the water that he is constantly blinded by, and dread fills his gut.

“--dead,” Ian whispers to himself, “I died.”

Where the lack of sound was previously calming, it is now deafening. He sees a movement in the corner of his eye as Mickey gets up, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the still water. It’s only when he sees Mickey walking straight towards the water from his peripheral vision that something adrenaline-like kicks in, and he scrambles up off the sand and runs towards Mickey.

“What’s happening, what do I do, how do I--” he yells after him, words unable to form proper questions, and Mickey stops, just on the edge of the water.

“Where am I?” Ian settles on as he reaches Mickey, and Mickey smiles.

“You’re somewhere in between,” he says, and shrugs. “It’s not here nor there. Different for everyone, I guess. Yours looks a little like Mexico.”

Mickey motions towards the still water. “Either way, it means you’re not actually… dead, yet.”

Ian looks from Mickey to the water and back, frowning, too many thoughts colliding until one prevails. “Then how are you here?”

Biting his lip, Mickey takes a quick look at Ian before turning back to the water.

“Because I chose to wait.”

Ian’s breath hitches, and he steps forward to touch Mickey’s face when a beam of white light appears right behind Mickey’s head. He shields his eyes with his hand, taking a step back as his skin starts tingling.

“What the fuck is that!”

Frowning, Mickey looks over his shoulder in the direction of the light, “What is what?”

“The-- that light! That really fucking bright light!”

Blue eyes narrow, and Mickey looks behind him again before turning back to Ian, one eyebrow raised.

“Can you see the tunnel?” he asks.

Ian lowers his hand and peers into the light, trying to make out if the beam is contained by anything.

“I don’t-- I can’t see a tunnel, but I can’t also  _not_ see a tunnel. It’s just really fucking bright light, man, can’t you  _see_ that?”

Though his eyes are practically blinded by the glare, Ian can make out Mickey’s outline, his shoulders slumping forward just a little before he shakes his head and squares them back up.

“It’s a door, Ian,” he says, and his voice trembles just a little, “it’s the way back.”

Ian lowers his hand, stepping closer to Mickey, using Mickey’s body to block most of the light. “Back where?”

“Back home. Back to your family. A second chance or something like that…”

“I don’t understand.” Ian stares at him, bewildered, and Mickey bites his lip and shrugs again.

“Your family is fighting to keep you alive. Carl hasn’t stopped doing chest compressions since he found you,” he explains, “you’re receiving CPR right now.”

Ian puts a hand to his heart and then two fingers to his neck, trying to find a pulse he knows won’t be there. Slowly, he drops his hand to his side, wondering when the last time was that he had heard the soft ringing in the back of his head.

“You are being set free, Ian,” Mickey mumbles when Ian doesn’t respond, digging his foot into the sand and glaring at the water.

_There you are._

Ian blinks at Mickey, making sure to grasp the full meaning of that particular combination of words.

_How could I have ever lived without you?_

“Mickey, what you and I have makes me free,” Ian says, and takes a step closer to Mickey, closer to the water, “you are where my soul feels at home.”

Ian steps forward and closes the distance between the two of them, bringing his hand up to cup the back of Mickey’s head as their lips and tongues connect. His eyes flutter shut as a soft moan breaks the silence, but he can’t tell if the voice is his or Mickey’s. Mickey smirks against his lips and a hand grabs him by the waist, pulling him closer into Mickey’s space, their hips grinding against each other. Mickey’s hand moves from his waist to the front of his pants, and then a large wave of cold water crashes into them, almost painfully, causing them to stumble back and apart to try and keep their balance, knocking Ian on his ass as he steps on the exact same seashell.

Dripping wet and frustratingly horny, Ian glares at the water, his nostrils flaring and an incomprehensible urge to yell at the cheerfully flowing water crawling up his throat. Somewhere beside him, Mickey bursts out into laughter at Ian’s face as water drips down his black hair and into his shirt, his cheeks high and red, all teeth and mischievous eyes, those gorgeous laugh lines appearing once more. Ian harrumphs and pushes himself up off the sand, visibly trying to suppress the smile tugging on his lips as he walks to where Mickey is waiting.

“I think I got sand in my pants,” Ian announces, pouting for good measure.

Mickey smirks up to him as he approaches. “Your ass is going to feel that later, Fire Crotch,” he says, blue eyes twinkling, “so what do we do now?”

“Well, I think my light at the end of the tunnel is gone,” Ian replies, looking around the beach as he tries to find the bright beam of light other than the one emanating from the water, “so I guess I’m here to stay.”

He smirks at Mickey as he walks towards the water, feeling lighter and more confident than he has in years.

“You coming? I think we gotta go into that other light in the water to keep going,” he says, motioning with his chin to the light shimmering underneath the surface of the waves.

Mickey walks closer, stopping at the edge of the water, hesitating before he looks up at Ian. “I never learned how to swim.”

“I’ll teach you.” Ian smiles as all the chips fall back where they belong. 

He holds out his hand.

_You know that feeling when you walk into a room and you just know you lost something, that you truly lost something. You know that you must find it, because it’s important and it can’t possibly be lost forever. And it bugs you, it irritates you at a cellular level to the point that it’s a constant ringing in the back of your head, a white noise you live with on a daily basis. But then, suddenly, it’s right there and you think, ‘there you are, how could I have ever lived without you?’_

_And you realize that you didn’t. You didn’t live. You have just been dragging through life, walking from place to place and person to person, looking for the thing you lost and hoping someone else found it, hoping that maybe they could give you something, anything to replace it. So you take and take and it isn’t enough. You look and search but you never find it._

_You try, and you drag, and you smile through your teeth as you wait for the time to finally be right. You make sure she’s okay, she’s happy, she’s doing well. And once you have fulfilled your promise to her, to them both, you finally let go. You cross your heart and you hope to be free. The noise turns from white to blue, and the ringing is no longer in the back but everywhere. There’s a breath of clarity, a clean heart beat before you sigh._

_There you are._

_And you are whole again._

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to my wonderful beta.


End file.
